Yama by Aleksandr Kuprin (best ereader for pdf TXT) 📕

great hand at talking and could, when he warmed up, pronounce about three hundred words a minute. His style was distinguished for mettle, pomp, and imagery; and his Caucasian accent with characteristic lisping and throaty sounds, resembling now the hawking of a woodcock, now the clacking of an eagle, not only did not hinder his discourse, but somehow even strangely adorned it. And no matter of what he spoke, he always led up the monologue to the most beautiful, most fertile, the very foremost, most chivalrous, and at the same time the most injured country⁠—Georgia. And invariably he cited lines from The Panther’s Skin of the Georgian poet Rustavelli; with assurances, that this poem was a thousand times above all of Shakespeare, multiplied by Homer.

Even though he was hotheaded, he was not spiteful; and in his demeanour femininely soft, gentle, engaging, without losing his native pride⁠ ⁠… One thing only did his comrades dislike in him⁠—some exaggerated, exotic love of women. He was unshakably, unto sacredness or folly, convinced that he was irresistibly splendid of person; that all men envied him, all women were in love with him, while husbands were jealous⁠ ⁠… This self-conceited, obtrusive dangling after women did not forsake him for a minute, probably not even in his sleep. Walking along the street he would every minute nudge Likhonin, Soloviev or some other companion with his elbow, and would say, smacking his lips and jerking his head backward at a woman who had passed by: “Tse, tse, tse⁠ ⁠… vai-vai! A ree-markable wooman! What a look she gave me. If I wish it, she’ll be mine!⁠ ⁠…”

This funny shortcoming about him was known; this trait of his was ridiculed good-naturedly and unceremoniously, but willingly forgiven for the sake of that independent comradely obligingness and faithfulness to his word, given to a man (oaths to women did not count), of which he was so naturally possessed. However, it must be said that he did in reality enjoy great success with women. Sempstresses, modistes, chorus girls, girls in candy stores, and telephone girls melted from the intense gaze of his heavy, soft, and languishing dark-blue eyes.

“Un-to this house and all those righteously, peacefully and without sin inhabiting it⁠ ⁠…” Soloviev started in to vociferate like an archdeacon and suddenly missed fire. “Father-prelates,” he began to murmur in astonishment, trying to continue the unsuccessful jest. “Why, but this is⁠ ⁠… This is⁠ ⁠… ah, the devil⁠ ⁠… this is Sonya, no, my mistake, Nadya⁠ ⁠… Well, yes! Liubka from Anna Markovna’s⁠ ⁠…”

Liubka blushed hotly, to the verge of tears, and covered her face with her palms. Likhonin noticed this, understood, sensed the thoroughly agitated soul of the girl, and came to her aid. He sternly, almost rudely, stopped Soloviev.

“Perfectly correct, Soloviev. As in a directory. Liubka from the Yamkas. Formerly a prostitute. Even more, still yesterday a prostitute. But from today⁠—my friend, my sister. And so let everyone, who respects me to any extent, regard her. Otherwise⁠ ⁠…”

The ponderous Soloviev hurriedly, sincerely, and powerfully embraced and rumpled Likhonin.

“Well, dear fellow, well, that’s enough⁠ ⁠… I committed a stupidity in the flurry. It won’t be repeated any more. Hail, my pale-faced sister.” He extended his hand with a broad sweep across the table to Liubka, and squeezed her listless, small and short fingers with gnawed, tiny nails. “It’s fine⁠—your coming into our modest wigwam. This will refresh us and implant in our midst quiet and decent customs. Alexandra! Be-er!” he began to call loudly. “We’ve grown wild, coarse; have become mired in foul speech, drunkenness, laziness and other vices. And all because we were deprived of the salutary, pacifying influence of feminine society. Once again I press your hand. Your charming, little hand. Beer!”

“Comin’,” the displeased voice of Alexandra could be heard on the other side of the door. “I’m comin’. What you yellin’ for? How much d’you want?”

Soloviev went out into the corridor to explain. Likhonin smiled after him gratefully; while the Georgian on his way slapped him benignly on the back, between his shoulder blades. Both understood and appreciated the belated, somewhat coarse delicacy of Soloviev.

“Now,” said Soloviev, coming back into the room and sitting down cautiously upon an ancient chair, “now let’s come to the order of the day. Can I be of service to you in any way? If you’ll give me half an hour’s time, I’ll run down to the coffee house for a minute and lick the guts out of the very best chess player there. In a word⁠—I’m at your disposal!”

“What a funny fellow you are!” said Liubka, ill at ease and laughing. She did not understand the jocose and unusual style of speech of the student, but something drew her simple heart to him.

“Well, that’s not at all necessary,” Likhonin put in. “I am as yet beastly rich. I think we’ll all go together to some little tavern somewhere. I must have your advice about some things. After all, you’re the people closest to me; and of course not as stupid and inexperienced as you seem at first glance. After that, I’ll go and try to arrange about her⁠ ⁠… about Liuba’s passport. You wait for me. That won’t take long⁠ ⁠… In a word, you understand what this whole business consists of, and won’t be lavish of any superfluous jokes. I,”⁠—his voice quivered sentimentally and falsely⁠—“I desire that you take upon yourselves a part of my care. Is that a go?”

“Va! It’s a go!” exclaimed the Prince (it sounded like “idiot,” when he said it26), and for some reason looked significantly at Liubka and twirled his moustache. Likhonin gave him a sidelong look. As for Soloviev, he said simple-heartedly:

“That’s the way. You’ve begun something big and splendid, Likhonin. The Prince told me about it during the night. Well, what of it, that’s what youth is for⁠—to commit sacred follies. Give me the bottle, Alexandra, I’ll open it myself, or else you’ll rupture yourself and burst a vein. To a new life, Liubochka, pardon me⁠ ⁠… Liubov⁠ ⁠… Liubov⁠ ⁠…”

“Nikonovna. But call me just